


I am the one thing in life I can control

by LoserLife592



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Because he's a being of chaos, Gen, How did Zuko time travel?, I have not watched LoK, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Old Zuko: Ozai was abusive, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Please bear with me on the titles, Time Travel, Young Zuko: :0, Zuko (Avatar)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoserLife592/pseuds/LoserLife592
Summary: Zuko is 16, angry, and searching for the Avatar.Across from him, Zuko is 90, old and wrinkled, and making tea.(or, Old Zuko imparts a much needed life lesson on his poor younger self).
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 1940





	I am the one thing in life I can control

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Wait for It by Leslie Odom Jr.
> 
> Song recs:  
> • The Draw by Bastille  
> • Sleep by My Chemical Romance  
> • God by House of Heroes  
> • Talking to Myself by Watsky (ha)  
> • Went Too Far by AURORA  
> • I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young  
> • Last Hope by Paramore  
> • Misguided Ghost by Paramore

Zuko is 16, angry, and searching for the Avatar.

Across from him, Zuko is 90, old and wrinkled, and making tea.

The smell of ginseng fills the room, earthy and subtle, mixing in with the smell of smoke from the scentless candles dotted around the room.

“I’d almost forgotten what this room looked like.” Zuko— _Lord_ Zuko—says. Absentmindedly he glances around; nostalgic and reminiscent.

“Who’d want to remember this tiny room anyway?” Zuko— _Banished Prince_ Zuko—snaps back. Going from the open and spacious grounds of the Fire Nation palace to the enclosed and sometimes claustrophobic quarters of the _Wani_ had not been a pleasant change. He’d adjusted and made do of course—he’d had no choice—but he still longs for his home.

Lord Zuko gives him a look then, as he’d been doing often. It’s mostly unreadable, for all that it’s _his own face_ , but it also seems…knowing.

“You’ve just turned sixteen, correct?” Lord Zuko asks abruptly. Prince Zuko nods. “You’re sailing south?”

Prince Zuko eyes him suspiciously for a moment. Then, almost in a rush, “It’s where he is, isn’t it? The Avatar? He’s in the South Pole.”

Lord Zuko doesn’t answer, doesn’t have to as his younger self gets up and moves over to the maps and sea charts laid out on his desk. He watches him absently, pouring tea into two awaiting cups.

“Finally,” Prince Zuko breathes, frantic, manic, _desperate_. “After so long, I’ve finally found him.”

Lord Zuko snorts, “Katara once fought me on the right to say that, seeing as she was the one that freed him from the ice.”

Prince Zuko whips around, scowl set and single brow drawn down in a deep furrow. “What?”

Lord Zuko shakes his head. “Nothing. Come sit, have some tea.”

Prince Zuko’s scowl deepens. “You sound like Uncle.”

“That is not a bad thing.”

He scoffs. “Uncle is a fat and lazy fool.”

Lord Zuko’s gaze, amiable and plain, sharpens a bit. “Sit.” He says, firm and insistent.

Prince Zuko’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches, shoulders wound tight and obstinate.

“Sit,” he says again, gentler and turning to face forward, “We have much to discuss.”

It takes a minute, tense silence prevailing the entire time, but Prince Zuko sits back down at the table, across from himself. He’s still tense, watching his older self intently, but he stays seated. “What?” he snaps.

Lord Zuko looks at his younger self. At his head, shaved to the skin except for the phoenix plume; at his face, young but already developing lines from how often his expression is fixed into a scowl or frown. At his scar, stark and bright and angry against his pale skin.

“This will not restore your honour.”

The prince startles, caught off guard then at once confused and annoyed. “What do you mean this won’t restore it? I capture and bring home the Avatar, and then Father will welcome me back and reinstate my proper position in the royal line. My honour _will_ be restored.”

Lord Zuko shakes his head. “Your honour is yours to restore, just as it is yours to lose. No one but yourself decides when it has been lost or found.”

Prince Zuko’s face pinches. “I disrespected father. I embarrassed him in front of the entire war council, and then in front of the entire royal court. I refused to fight even after accepting the challenge.” He says. “ _I dishonoured myself_. What else is there to say?”

Lord Zuko looks at him. “We were never born lucky,” he says, and Prince Zuko recoils slightly. The words, unexpected, claw at him. Drudging up memories he doesn’t like; his father’s stern voice and cold stare. ( _You were lucky to be born_ ).

“Everything we’ve gotten, we worked for.” He continues, unbidden. “Everything we’ve accomplished, we persevered for. Everything we’ve learned, we taught ourselves. Everything in life, we’ve had to earn. Because of this, we don’t know when to stop. Don’t know what is supposed to be freely given—what we have a _right_ to.

“A parent’s love,” he says, staring into his own eyes, “is one of those things.”

Prince Zuko stares back at himself, wide-eyed and stunned. After a long, long moment, he says, “Father loves me.” The words sound faint to his own ears, both old and young sets.

“How do you know?”

“…What?”

“How do you know that Father loves you?”

The Prince says nothing in response. He can’t—his mind is scrambling to find an answer. Scrambling to drudge up a single memory, a single moment—

(His stare, always dispassionate and cold. Uncaring. He never really touched Zuko, but when he did it was a harsh grip—firm, unyielding, painful. His voice hardly held any warmth—

_“Pathetic.”_

_“Useless.”_

_“Weak.”_

_“I looked into your eyes when you were born. I looked into your eyes and saw nothing but weakness. No fire, no strength. It’s a miracle I allowed you to survive.”_

—Zuko can’t remember his father ever smiling at him.)

“I make him angry,” he says at last, words bursting out of him in a rush. “He sees my potential but I never live up to it, so I make him angry. I upset him so it’s hard for him to show— _I_ make it hard for him to show his lo—to show how much he cares.” He chokes, chest constricting. All at once he realizes he hasn’t breathed so he sucks in a loud breath through his teeth. It rattles in his lungs before he pushes it back out.

“ _Father loves me_ ,” he says again, forcefully, “It’s just hard for him to show it when I’m such a bad son.”

And he is. He’s a horrid, disrespectful, let-down of a son. Weak and soft-hearted, slow in his mastery of bending. Always falling too far below the expectations Father has set.

( _“I ask so little of you, Zuko, yet you still refuse to be_ better _. Still wallow in shame and frailty. Can’t you be more like Azula?”_ ).

(Father loves Azula. ~~So he can love me too, right?~~ )

Lord Zuko says nothing. He picks up his teacup and drinks. Prince Zuko doesn’t touch his. He’s tense, defensive and ready to jump into action. Coiled and ready to lash out at the slightest further provocation.

“Did you know,” Lord Zuko starts, conversationally, “That Azula is wont to tell the truth?” The Prince twitches, stares at his older self. “Not often of course, but it does happen. Words, for her, are as much a weapon—a means of attack—as bending.”

( _“Don’t worry Zuzu, I won’t push you.”_ )

( _“Your secret is safe with me, I won’t tell Dad!”_ )

( _“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I didn’t touch the turtleducks!”_ )

( _“ ~~Dad’s going to kill you! Really, he is!~~ ”_)

“Azula always lies.”

“Except for when she knows the truth will hurt so much more.”

Prince Zuko can hardly breathe, hardly blink. He’s confused and uneasy. Misplaced in the flow of this conversation and tripped up by every topic brought up. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way he’s feeling or the things they keep talking about. Doesn’t like the way that everything said _makes sense_. Doesn’t like the way that the words coming from his older self ring true, deep inside of himself.

He looks down at his hands, white knuckled around the edge of the table. The metal is heating up quickly; flames he never tried to keep much leash on when emotional ready to burst from his hands.

“Enough,” he croaks, “Why are you telling me all this?”

Lord Zuko sighs and sets down his empty cup. “Because this is the hardest lesson you will ever learn.” Prince Zuko glances up and their eyes meet. “Out of every truth you will come across—the truth of the war, of the propaganda, of your ancestry and family’s secrets— _this_ , the truth about Ozai and what he’s done to you, what he continues to do to you. It will always be the hardest thing to learn.”

Prince Zuko swallows, clenches his jaw tight and looks down. “And what is it that I am meant to learn?”

“That he’s wrong.” Lord Zuko says, firm and unyielding. If the Prince looked up, he’d see eyes that were distant. Wistful. “That he’s a cruel monster who has never loved anyone in his life; he only sees things that can or cannot further his ambitions. You can— _I have_ given up everything for him. My freedom, my honour, my identity, my _uncle_ ; I gave up _everything_ , and he never said sorry for what he did. Barely even thanked me for everything I sacrificed and did for him.

“You’ll learn that it was never a matter of you needing to do and be better; needing to prove yourself _worthy enough_. You were a _child_ , and no child should _ever_ have to prove themselves worthy of love. You’ll learn that the fault has always lain with him, not you.”

Lord Zuko exhales a breath, closes his eyes. “And you’ll learn that there is no point in striving to be like him and Azula; no point in trying to be the merciless, cold-hearted person that they’d want you to be. That is not who you are—they know it and so do you.” He opens his eyes to look at his younger self again. “You are kind-hearted. You care and protect and want to help people. That is who you have always been.”

( _“No matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are.”_ )

Lord Zuko leans forward, hand outstretched. Prince Zuko flinches back, hand reflexively coming up in defense. He freezes when the weathered, calloused hand of his older self cups his face, thumb resting just under his eye. Just under his _left_ eye.

“This,” he says, staring into the eyes of his younger self, “Does not have to be the mark of the banished prince. It does not have to be a burden of shame, or a curse inflicted upon you. No, if you let it, this scar can be the start of something new. A second chance.”

The Prince stares, wide-eyed and still, at himself. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he jerks back, away from the hand and those eyes that bore into his soul. He draws into himself even as his shoulders straighten out, head bowed and gaze averted.

“A second chance for _what_?” he spits. “For disgracing myself? For turning my back on my Lord? For going against my destiny? The start of _me_ becoming _you_?”

Lord Zuko sighs and lowers his hand to the table. “No,” he says, “The start of you being _free_. Free to choose your own fate. Free to carve your _own_ destiny, not the one that has been forced upon you by someone else. Free to be anyone at all that you wish to be.” Golden eyes bore into his younger self. “Whether that means becoming me, or someone else entirely, that is your choice to make. You are free to do what you want.”

“Who I wish to be,” the Prince murmurs, a lump in his throat. He licks his lips and curls his hands into white-knuckled fists. “What I want to do.”

Prince Zuko grits his teeth and meets his older self’s eyes. “I _want_ my throne back. I _want_ to not be viewed by my entire nation as a failure and disgrace. _I want_ —” He sucks in a harsh breath, forces himself not to break eye contact. “I want to _go home_.”

That look is back on his older self’s face. He can identify it now. It’s still knowing, but also sad. Empathetic. Sorrowful.

“And you will get to.” Lord Zuko says, soft and melancholy. “You will suffer more than you even know is possible—be tested in ways you couldn’t even imagine—but you will get to home. This war will end. It is meant to.”

Later—much, _much_ later, Iroh knocks on his nephew’s door. It has been hours and he has neither seen nor heard from him at all. No one has, but Iroh is the only one concerned about that. He opens the door after receiving no reply and finds his nephew sat at the table in his room. A single cup of cold ginseng tea is before him and his gaze is distant and hollow. He is shaking.

“Prince Zuko?” he asks, quiet. He closes the door behind him and sits across from his nephew. “Is everything alright? You’ve been up here for hours.”

Zuko blinks once, eyes slowly focusing on Iroh. “Uncle?” his voice is subdued and hesitant in a way it hasn’t been in years. Not since after the Agni Kai. Not since the banishment.

Iroh wants to move around the table and cradle his nephew in his arms. Wants to hold him and protect him from everything that has put that lost and unbalanced look on his face. But he restrains himself. His nephew has not allowed himself that kind of comfort in years. “I am here, Zuko.” He says instead, soft and reassuring.

Zuko says nothing for a long moment. Finally, he lets out a shaky exhale and whispers, as if afraid to be overheard. “I’m tired.”

Iroh’s heart nearly breaks. “Then you should rest, nephew. A man needs his rest.”

Zuko nods but doesn’t move. Instead he reaches out a hand, unsure and timid. “Will you still be here when I wake?”

Iroh takes his nephew’s hand and hold it firm but loose enough for Zuko to easily pull away. “There is no force on Earth that could drag me away from your side.” He vows. Pure relief washes over Zuko’s face and he clings to Iroh’s hand with a desperate grip. His head bows, forehead brushing Iroh’s knuckles.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Iroh knew, instinctively, that whatever this was about, it went beyond a simple sleep.

“You do not have to thank me nephew. I do this because I want to. Because I care about you.”

Zuko glances up, a strange look crossing his features. He bows his head again, holds Iroh’s hand tight between both of his own and presses his forehead to them.

“ _Thank you, Uncle_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am not good at writing endings/conclusions and it shows.
> 
> My [tumblr](https://fuckusernamemes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
